Michael was surprised. His Pakistani heritage had not served him well and he’d dropped all ties to it, other than his father. It was one less moth-eaten coat in his cupboard. This woman was not like him. She hung her heritage on her wall for everyone to see and judge and question. He didn’t know anyone second-generation who did that.

‘My sister thinks I’m overcompensating for my “polite white lifestyle”.’ She tilted her head slightly as she spoke, and he could see traces of her father in her face. He noticed that she’d changed into a sari blouse and petticoat under the shawl she’d wrapped herself in. She turned back to the picture. ‘Who knows, maybe I am. A little.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t mix with Pakistanis or Pathans much. Not unless I’m defending them in court. You’d be surprised how much one can miss those ways… Shall we go?’

She handed him her case. He nodded.

‘So, what did the good people of our city tell you about me?’ she asked as he placed the bag in the car. He didn’t answer, instead holding the door behind the driver’s seat open as his father had taught him to do for women of ‘good’ families. Jia ignored the protocol and climbed into the passenger seat.

‘I’m not sitting in silence in the back of the car for three hours,’ she said. ‘This isn’t Pakistan.’ In that moment Michael knew that he liked Jia Khan, but that it mattered little to her either way.

CHAPTER 8

The boy searched the pockets of his red jacket for his car keys as he stood at the front door. He noticed his mother watching him from the kitchen. She was enveloped in the smell of masala, in her hand a powdered rolling pin. The boy stepped into the street to escape the scent.

He wasn’t really a ‘boy’ and when the newspapers would caption his photograph they would describe him as a ‘youth’. It was a legal technicality that mattered little to his mother.

‘No more chapattis, Mum. I’m in training,’ he said, waving her away as she followed him to the door. Her constant need to cook, showing her love through complex carbs, cakes and jalebis, annoyed him and hampered progression towards his muscle-building target. She stepped forward to kiss him but he brushed her off. ‘Acha, acha,’ he said, softening as he saw the look on her face. ‘Don’t wait up watching those Hum dramas.’

She stood by the door whispering prayers as the headlights of his red Ferrari flashed and the boot clicked open. She knew of no other way to keep him safe.